One could go on and on forever talking about anything, but I'll just touch on it here.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

I Dance Anyway

Gyms have never been my thing. The hamster-wheel monotony of what I call a treadmill prison is strictly punishment. Exercise was never something I had to schedule; being active was just how I lived my life. Now, however, I'm pushing forty and somehow the last few years I have given in to the little voice that says, sit down, relax, take it easy, have a muffin—more often than I should. So I agreed with my husband that joining a gym might be a good idea.

We joined the YMCA, and, yes, it has the rodent rooms—and I've spent a few hours running to nowhere—but it also has a plethora of classes that don't involve machines. I tried out a dance class and got hooked after the first day. It helps that the instructor is jubilant and kind and that the class isn't designed as a bootcamp but a place to learn some steps and also express a little freestyle. There's no judgment, which is great when I can't follow the arm and foot motions at the same time. I can hide in the back and not get called out for it.

The difficulty is that, though I show up week after week and mostly keep up with the group grapevining right and horsetrotting left, one key element of dance that I can't seem to master is the booty bump. My booty just won't bump.

Never in my life have I ever stared so hard at other women's rear ends as I try to decipher how they are moving them so quickly and so separately from the rest of their bodies. When I look at the wall of mirrors I hope it's got that fun-house effect, because if it isn't distorting my body image then oh my! I twirl and spin and realize my back is doing all the work, or my legs, or maybe I'm just bouncing on my toes but my bottom just hangs out there, somewhere near the middle, doing nothing.

Some people speak of being double jointed, others are just super flexible, but I'm wondering if I missed out on some sort of built-in hinge that would allow me to booty bump my fat away and not look totally ridiculous. I can't even imagine scrawny eleven-year-old me back in the days of gymnastics capable of such dancing wonders.

So I guess I can't blame it on the muffins.

If I really want to get somewhere I suppose I could take hula lessons. Or try belly dancing. Oh well, no matter what my booty won't do I can at least work up a sweat to the music and just dance, dance, dance.

Creative Commons: Victorio Marasigan, 2008